


Now and Then

by sori



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-21
Updated: 2007-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:10:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sori/pseuds/sori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2007 Stargate rare pairings ficathon.  Prompt:  Jack and Siler friendship fic; their first meeting and how they became friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now and Then

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to audra and blue_meridian for beta duties!

  
_“Life can only be understood backwards...“_   


  


_Soren Kierkegaard_

 

(8)

The email says, _Going fishing now_ , and it's signed, _Jack_ , like it's all the most normal thing in the world. Siler doesn't know whether to laugh or ignore it, because retired now or not, he's not sure General O'Neill will ever manage to be _Jack_ in his mind. Siler's never been a big fan of change.

But in the end he clicks reply and sends an email back. He starts it, _Jack_ , and really, it's not as hard as he'd thought it be; years of working together and fighting together, however distantly, and those occasional, not-always-accidental drinks in a small bar around the corner, and maybe General O'Neill was closer to being _Jack_ then even he'd realized.

It's still all about respect, and friendship, just under a slightly different name than before.

 

(7)

Siler slides onto the stool next to General O'Neill, nodding his head at the bartender, pointing to General O'Neill's beer, and holding up two fingers.

"Siler," General O'Neill says, staring blankly at the tv on the wall. It's hockey season already, somehow the last few months have practically disappeared in the constant state of _about to die_ , and the return of the season is not necessarily a bad thing. Hockey's grown on Siler in the last few years.

Besides, he's got a feeling that the Eagles are going to have a break-out season this year.

"So," Siler says, just to the fill the empty space. "Last day at the SGC?"

General O'Neill looks over and rolls his eyes. "Subtle, Siler. Real subtle."

Siler grins back and grabs up a handful of nuts from the counter. The bartender sets his beer down in front of him, some light beer with a foreign sounding name. Weird, not General O'Neill's usual, but it's probably a day to break tradition.

"Figured you'd be with your team tonight, sir." Siler carefully doesn't look anywhere but at the tv.

"Not so much my team anymore. Not for the last year," he says, but he doesn't really sound like he believes the words. Siler doesn't either; no one does actually. SG-1 will always be General O'Neill's team. Sometimes, Siler feels sorry for Colonel Mitchell; it's got to be rough to be in command of a group that will never truly be his.

"If you say so, sir."

General O'Neill does look at him then, smiles and shakes his head. "Siler, sometimes I think you're a bigger smart ass then I'll ever be." He toasts Siler with his beer bottle. "I'm meeting up with my team in a few hours. Thought I'd stop in here first. Best beer in town."

Siler nods his head. "Yeah, best beer in town, sir. Absolutely." He doesn't point out that MGD is O'Neill's favorite and it doesn't usually matter whether you get it on tap or drink it from a bottle at a restaurant. It all takes like piss to Siler anyway.

On the television, the crowd at the hockey game goes wild, and even through the speakers they can almost feel the pounding of the yells. "Fucking Eagles," O'Neill says and Siler snorts into his beer.

"This'll be their year."

"It'll never be their year," O'Neill argues, and, okay, maybe Siler can see his point.

 

(6)

Things are different now, and Siler hesitates before sliding onto the bar stool next to General O'Neill. Yesterday he was a Colonel and today he is a General, and Siler thinks that maybe that should matter, even though he's fairly sure that it won't. To be honest, though, being the leader of SG-1 has always been somehow _bigger_ than being commander of the SGC.

It is _SG-1_ after all.

General O'Neill looks up and catches him standing awkwardly beside the bar. "Siler, pull up a stool and join me in a final _fuck you_ to the man." He's got a bottle of Sierra Nevada in front of him, half empty.

"You _are_ the man now, sir," Siler says, but he goes ahead and hops onto the bar stool and signals the bartender for a beer.

"And let me tell you, I'm having a real case of the ass about that fact. _The fucking man_." He shakes his head sadly. "Christ."

Siler laughs, tries to hide it when General O'Neill looks over and glares. "Yes, sir. Case of the ass," he says completely deadpan.

O'Neill cracks a grin, a small one, and Siler snorts into his beer. Yeah, the promotion is a loss to SG-1 maybe, but it's pretty damn good for the rest of the SGC. There's not many that could fill General Hammond's shoes.

"So, Siler, tell me. How do you feel about casual Fridays?"

 

(5)

They're drinking Heineken from the tap and it's so good Siler can almost feel his toes curling. It's about a hundred degrees outside and the day has sucked from start to finish. Except, he's still alive and the Earth's still here and so, while unexpected for sure, that part actually went pretty well.

Amazing what a few drones and some completely fucked up accidents of technology can do for you.

"Married a German woman once," Siler says randomly, after drinking down the last of his beer.

Colonel O'Neill nods his head knowingly. "German women. Best in the world."

"Yeah, at least for a few years." Siler still feels the sting of the divorce even after almost a decade. He figures that Colonel O'Neill can probably understand that. Some rumors are usually pretty accurate; Siler's learned to tell the difference.

"It's always those few years that'll get you," Colonel O'Neill says, and Siler snorts because, _yeah_. Get you, and suck you dry, and make you regret the moment you bought the ring, but not all the moments before.

"Couldn't have said it better myself, sir."

 

(4)

Siler doesn't say, _I'm sorry_ when he slides into the booth across from the Colonel O'Neill; he just sets two glasses down on the table, the dark amber liquid bitter and strong in the cup.

Scotch, because it hurts going down and it hurts the next morning, and sometimes, you can't feel one pain when there's another one to distract you.

Siler doesn't really think that'll work this time, there's a limit to how much pain can be masked, and Siler's sure Colonel O'Neill's way past that point. But it can't hurt to try. For both of them.

They sit quietly together in the darkened booth, staring at nothing, and sipping slowly, since slowly is just how to drink at a time like this. Colonel O'Neill orders them both another round, and when the waitress sets the glasses down in front of them she says, "On the house tonight, boys. You look like you need it."

Colonel O'Neill stares at the drink for a while until he finally picks it up and holds it out.

"To Daniel Jackson," he says quietly, and Siler taps their glasses together and drinks.

 

(3)

"Well, that was an experience," Colonel O'Neill says as he flops down on the stool next to Siler. "I need a damn drink."

The bartender doesn't even say a word, just grabs up two glasses and fills them from the tap. They've got a dozen beers on tap, foreign and domestic and everything in between. This one's a dark, dark beer and it smells vaguely German, if German had a smell. Siler's pretty sure he's going to like it before he even takes a drink.

"Sir?" He asks, even though he knows exactly what Colonel O'Neill's talking about. But O'Neill's a Colonel and Siler's a Master Sergeant and the question is just part of what they do.

"The whole," Colonel O'Neill waves his hand through the air, takes a sip of beer, "super strength thing. Weird. Wouldn't recommend it." He nods his head at Siler like he's imparting great wisdom and Siler silently agrees. Although, he doesn't think the super strength was the problem so much as the _losing the super strength_ but sometimes, it's hard to tell with Colonel O'Neill.

"I'll keep that in mind, Colonel." Siler gulps down his beer and it's as good as he was expecting - bitter and heavy and _exactly_ like Germany.

Germany was some of the best three years of his life.

"Yeah, you do that, Sergeant. You do that." O'Neill says. He leans back and grabs up a handful of nuts. "How about those Eagles? This has got to be their fucking year."

 

(2)

Siler's arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow and the pain is pounding, distracting, enough that when he'd left base, all he'd wanted was a drink and a pain pill. The beer had won out.

There's about three people inside the bar tonight and he's pretty sure they're soldiers from Fort Carson on the other side of the Springs; they've got that Army look to them. He stays in the corner, hidden in a back booth, nursing his weak beer. It's an almost decent end to a not so decent day.

"Whiskey works better," Colonel O'Neill says, as he slips silently into the booth across from Siler.

"Sir?" Siler asks, because after almost twenty years in the military he recognizes the voice of authority and responds accordingly. Even if he's high on pain and pissy from bad alcohol.

Colonel O'Neill points to his glass and says, "That's not going to do much for you." And Siler looks up and Colonel O'Neill looks, _huh_ , actually a little sorry.

"I've still got to get home, sir."

"And you're not at home now, why?" O'Neill glances up as the waitress sits a tumbler filled to the top in front of him.

"Yeah, maybe I'll get there eventually, Colonel," Siler says and regrets it almost instantly. It's been one of those kind of days that can only happen at the SGC, but even then, that's really not an excuse. Siler's never been one to tie the line of disrespect.

Colonel O'Neill waves him off as he starts to apologize. "I'm an expert on crappiest days, Siler. Live for the damn things."

Siler notices the dark circles under Colonel O'Neill's eyes, the ragged marks on his arms, the eyes that look sort of haunted, like they'd seen the same things Siler had seen. And they had, Siler remembers. Hathor and snakes and how easy it was for them all to give in. Siler has to stop, pick up his drink, and take a long gulp.

Too weak by half, Siler thinks, because he can still see the snakes.

Can still remember the screams.

"Everyday's an adventure," Colonel O'Neill finally says. He clinks his glass against Siler's on the table. "Fucking adventure."

Siler can see the grin on Colonel O'Neill's face - mocking and angry and raw, and maybe sort of exactly how all the men on base felt.

"You know it, sir," he says, and waves the waitress over to order another two drinks.

 

(1)

He's sitting at the end of the bar, half hidden in the shadows, and Siler only barely recognizes him; probably wouldn't have recognized him at all if he hadn't set across the table from him for two hours during a meeting earlier today. Rumors are running crazy around the SGC and Siler had spent countless hours over the last few days counseling his junior NCOs on everything from the new command structure, to the new mission, to the new alien taking up residence in the on-base quarters.

He'd been eighteen and stupid when he'd joined up for the GI Bill, but he'd been experienced and sure when he'd re-upped for reasons that had everything to do who he'd become, and the leaders he'd served with, and the opportunities he'd discovered. The military, despite the good old boys club and the traditions, was still the great equalizer.

But this was all something new - new life and new technology and a whole new set of rules. People were already worried; it was too much, too soon, not enough information and not enough accountability for the actions that may have just sealed Earth's fate. They had leaders that were good, no doubt, but they might also be demanding more than the airmen were ready to give.

These were big secrets they were being asked to keep.

He'd told Sergeant Scott, "Just wait and see. We have to make sure we get it right," and he'd meant it, mostly at least, but he wouldn't mind getting some reassurance of his own that he wasn't keeping secrets this big for all the wrong people.

Siler walks down to the end of the bar and slides into the seat next to Colonel O'Neill. "Sir," he says, holding up a finger and signaling the bartender at the other end of the bar.

Colonel O'Neill looks over and Siler actually can count off the moments in his head while O'Neill goes searching for his name.

"Sergeant Siler," O'Neill says finally. He nods once at Siler and then looks back to the TV in the corner.

It's hockey, and Christ, Siler has always hated hockey. But he sits down anyway and orders a beer, and they don't talk about work or the mountain or the secrets they protect. Instead, they sit silently at the almost empty bar just down the mountain and around the corner from base. They drink bad beer and watch the Eagles get their asses kicked on television, and when the Colonel stands to leave, he drops a twenty on the table and says:

"Welcome to the new world, Siler."


End file.
